


Spirits

by Rhiannon87



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as "Yet Another Collection of Hawke/Anders DA2 Vignettes." A look at Hawke, Anders, Justice, and Vengeance, and how they all fit together during six years in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an effort to sort out my own headcanon for Anders/Justice/Vengeance in Dragon Age 2, and then grew a bit from there. Eternal thanks to combination-nc, defira85, flutiebear, and tempus_teapot, all of whom have influenced my headcanon on Justice and Vengeance.

Hawke wasn't the sort of man who knocked, or asked if someone was busy, if they had a moment to talk. No, Hawke viewed the world as something that moved around him. And the world just had to go and feed that attitude by obeying, more often than not. Anders was idly sorting through the drafts on his desk, trying to determine which ones were worth keeping, when Hawke breezed in and dropped into one of the chairs in the small living space near the front of the clinic. “So, this whole, spirit-of-Justice thing,” he said without preamble, as though a week _hadn't_ passed since they last spoke, and swung his feet up onto the crate-slash-table. “Explain it to me.”

“Hello to you too,” Anders replied, a bit testily. He frowned and leaned back against his desk. “ And I'm not sure if I can.”

“Mm. Try.” Hawke folded his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow at him.

Fear and anger flared up at the demand. “Why?” Anders snapped, the taste of metal thick on his tongue. “So you can decide that I'm an abomination? Would you put me down yourself, or would you call the Templars to do it?”

Hawke rolled his eyes. “The only thing I'd call the Templars for is...” The snappy comeback died and he frowned. “Actually, I can't think of anything I'd call them for.” Anders eyed him warily; Hawke sighed. “Look, honestly? I'm curious. Is that such a bad thing?”

It wasn't exactly the answer he wanted, although Anders was pretty sure that the answer he _wanted_ was 'oh, I'm sorry, I'll stop asking, want to go have a drink?'

Except drinking was too much of a danger because he might lose control. _Damn_ it all.

Anders sighed. “I don't entirely understand it myself,” he started. “Like I said, Justice as a separate being, he's... he's gone.” A loss that still ached, even though the spirit was a part of him. “I sort of absorbed him, I suppose.”

“But what does that _mean_?” Hawke pressed. “Is it a voice in your head, or...?”

“No,” Anders replied. “Although that might be easier. It's... an emotion? A focus? An obsession, maybe? It's like a feeling of... of justice. Maker, this isn't making any sense, is it?”

“Not a lick,” Hawke said cheerfully. “But don't let that stop you.”

Anders sighed again. He did that a lot when Hawke was around. “My own emotions are stronger now,” he said. “Everything is more intense. I'm not sure why that is, but there you have it. But...” Something like insight came to him, and he straightened up. “You know how when you're just relaxing, maybe you're not feeling anything in particular? Just content or neutral or bored?” Hawke nodded. “I don't have that. I'm _always_ feeling... anger, maybe? Awareness of injustice? It's not any one emotion, it's just this core of purpose and righteousness and vengeance and...”

Hawke tilted his head to the side. “Now we're getting somewhere, I think."

“I can't just ignore it,” Anders continued, starting to pace. “Can't ignore much of anything, really. So it's always there, but sometimes, it's stronger.”

“Like in the Chantry.”

He stopped, back towards Hawke, his hands curled into fists. “Yes. That's when I completely lose control.” Anders looked over his shoulder at him. “You ever do that? Just completely lose yourself in an emotion?”

Hawke's expression darkened for a moment. “Yes.”

“Use that as a baseline,” he said, turning back around. “It's like that but so, so much more. Something else takes control of me then. I can _see_ everything happening, but I can't stop it. It's like I'm trapped within my own body. When I'm-- I'm angry or threatened.”

“You get all glowy and growly, right.” Hawke gave him a fairly obvious once-over to go along with that statement. Anders blinked. Maker, Hawke didn't think he was _attractive_ when Justice took over? The man had already established that he thought Anders had a 'sexy, tortured' look to him, but he couldn't... no. Not possible.

“It's not always that strong, though,” Anders continued, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind. “If I'm just frustrated or if I’m doing something that he wouldn’t approve of...” Or if he was lonely and lost in idle memories of Nathaniel and Sigrun, or indulging in absent-minded fantasies about certain handsome ex-smuggler apostates. “It's not always violent,” he continued. “Sometimes there's just a feeling of-- of a presence, I guess. Like I'm feeling someone else's emotions as well as my own.” Emotions that always left him with a taste of metal on his tongue.

“Huh.” Hawke nodded thoughtfully. “That doesn't sound all that dangerous.”

Anders blinked. That was not the response he'd been expecting. “For a mage to completely lose control like that--”

“So you do some damage,” Hawke said. “Have you _seen_ me in a fight? And it's not like you're attacking people who don't deserve it.”

 _Wardens dead around him, blood and flesh caked under his nails and in his mouth, and he retches desperately because anything is better than the taste of it--_

“Not always,” he replied, looking away. “If there are Templars, there could be... collateral damage.”

“Is there anything that can bring you out of it?” Hawke asked. “Some, I don't know, trigger word or something?”

“I'd assume that knocking me unconscious would do the trick,” Anders replied dryly. “Probably something to keep in your back pocket in case I ever really lose it.”

“Well,” Hawke shrugged. “It probably won't come to that. You seem to have it pretty well under control. And it's only been a little while, right?” Anders nodded, a bit flabbergasted at Hawke's casual attitude. “You'll probably get a better handle on it as time goes on.”

“You—You don't—You don't think it was a mistake?” Anders stammered.

Hawke blew out a breath and shrugged. “I don't think it was the _smartest_ thing you could have done,” he said. “But from everything you've told me, you meant it for the best. And you're doing good: caring for these people, helping mages, healing my sorry ass,” he grinned, “which is obviously the most important part.”

He might have changed, but Justice hadn't destroyed him. “It is pretty important,” he agreed. “I'd hate to see anything happen to it.”

Hawke blinked, then grinned broader as he worked out the innuendo. “Well, look who's got a sense of humor after all,” he teased. Anders rolled his eyes. Hawke shrugged and climbed out of his chair, ambling towards Anders. “You were trying to help a friend. What's done is done, and making you feel guilty about it isn't going to change things.” He lightly poked Anders in the chest and smirked. “Besides, I'm sorta liking this dark, tragic air you're cultivating. It's strangely alluring.”

Anders opened and closed his mouth a few times, then heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “Did you just come down here to question me?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Hawke snickered. “Question _and_ flirt,” he replied. “A two-pronged strategy in my continued efforts to get to know you better.” Anders opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “I was gonna try to drag you up to the Hanged Man for drinks and cards, but then on the way down here I got curious about Justice and figured you wouldn't want to talk about it in front of everyone, so...” He shrugged. “You wanna come?”

He started to say no, then paused. “If I say no, you're going to whine and cajole and otherwise harass me until I give in, aren't you,” he said.

Hawke grinned. “Only a week and we already know each other so well!” he said. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

“Then I'll agree now and save us both the trouble.”

“Excellent!” Hawke clapped his hands together. “Grab your staff and let's go.”


	2. Chapter 2

After knowing the man for about a month, Anders realized that he could very easily shorten “destructive force of nature” to “Garrett Hawke.” The man was a human hurricane. He attracted trouble like iron to a magnet, and in the fights he frequently found himself in, he was a force of devastation. Fire, ice, raw arcane force-- their enemies didn't stand a chance.

Hawke tended to stay at a distance from the bulk of the fighting, letting his brother actually wade into the fray. Which meant he wound up standing next to Anders, more often than not. The man was powerful and handsome and a bloody distraction. It was shameful, the number of times he'd gotten a mental kick from whatever remained of Justice to snap him out of his ogling.

On this particular night, Hawke had dragged him out of the clinic to help break up a group of thugs terrorizing the docks. Varric seemed pleased to see him; Carver didn't, but by now, Anders was more or less used to the younger man's disdain for all things magic. Unless, of course, it was healing in the midst of a fight. He cast a healing spell on Carver and blasted the swordsman staggering up the steps towards them with a fistful of ice.

“Nice work!” Hawke said with a grin. His hands were surrounded by flame, and he hurled a fireball just behind his brother. Anders grinned back in spite of himself. It was almost inspiring, a mage so free and content with his abilities, not ashamed or holding back--

Another raider crashed through the door behind them and slammed the pommel of his sword into Hawke's temple. Hawke stumbled backwards, then dropped like a sack of bricks. Anders swore under his breath as the raider turned on him. He shifted his grip on his staff, hands closer to the top, and caught the raider's sword in the notched end. A quick twist and the sword went flying. Anders swung the end of his staff at the raider's head, sending the man stumbling over the low railing.

Hawke was unconscious, bleeding sluggishly from a nasty head wound, and there were more raiders pouring into the warehouse. “Maker's arse,” Anders muttered, spinning his staff in his hands. Defense wasn't exactly his strong suit. He stepped closer to Hawke and cast a repulsion glyph around them both. That would have to hold for the moment. A paralysis glyph between the stair and the door would slow any other attackers, hopefully long enough for him to finish them off. He swallowed hard, the taste of steel thick on his tongue. He could handle this. He could maintain control.

The paralysis rune did the trick; a trio of raiders rushed him and tripped it, green light surrounding them as the magic held them in place. Anders laid into them with ice and arcane blasts from his staff, holding them off until Carver charged up the stairs and finished them off. “I think that's the last of them,” the younger man gasped. “What happened?”

“Pommel to the head,” Anders replied, setting his staff aside as he crouched to examine Hawke. “Keep watch for any stragglers, would you?”

Carver grumbled but obeyed. Anders placed his hand against Hawke's face, hand curled against his jaw in imitation of a lover's touch. He shook his head and shoved that thought back down, then cast the healing spell. Hawke groaned, eyes fluttering, and tried to sit up.

“Don't move,” Anders said, pushing on his chest with his other hand. “You took a nasty blow to the head.”

“I figured as much,” Hawke replied. “Sorry to pass out on you like that, but I figured you could handle things on your own for a bit.” He grinned crookedly.

Anders smiled back. “Well, neither of us is dead, so I guess I did all right,” he replied. He'd mostly finished healing Hawke, but he didn't move either of his hands, giving himself a moment or two to just enjoy the contact. This was the only way he touched people, now, healing their wounds. It was all he trusted himself to do. He missed it, simple human contact, but anything else was a risk. Or a distraction. Or, like Hawke, both.

“Are you done yet?” Carver drawled.

Anders pulled his hands away and leaned back. “He should be fine.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, brother,” Hawke said as he slowly got to his feet, leaning on his staff for support. Anders stood as well and moved aside to let Hawke lead the way down into the warehouse. He flexed his fingers, the tips still warm from Hawke's skin, and sighed. The Deep Roads expedition couldn't come soon enough. Hawke would be gone, and return wealthy, and then move to Hightown and be out of Anders's life. And that was for the best. No matter how much the thought made his chest ache.


	3. Chapter 3

“How're you holding up?” Hawke asked as he slung an arm around Anders's shoulders. Anders stiffened, torn between twin instincts of _pull away_ and _move closer_.

“Fine,” he replied. “I guess I'm getting used to all the noise in my head.” Between his Warden senses telling him about the darkspawn and his Justice senses picking up the song of lyrium, Anders had a near-constant headache and hadn't slept well in almost a week. At least the lyrium song was actually pleasant. But even pleasant music got tiresome when it went on for a week, unceasing and inside his bloody skull.

“Well, that's... something, I guess.” Hawke said. He sighed and looked around the tunnel. “At least we're getting close to being out, right?”

Anders nodded. A little over two weeks since they'd left Kirkwall and descended into the Deep Roads. He was never coming back after this. He hadn't realized how bad it would be, the darkspawn and Justice and the small, dark spaces that left him trembling and soaked in sweat. No matter how much Hawke begged or pleaded, he was going to stand firm next time. If there was a next time. Maker, he hoped there wouldn't be a next time, because for all his bravado he _knew_ that he'd give in. Hawke was an incredibly difficult man to say no to.

Hawke squeezed his shoulder and pulled away. “I am going to pay for all of us to get rooms at the fanciest inn in Kirkwall,” he declared. “And we won't do anything but take baths. Really, really hot baths with expensive soap and the fluffiest towels.”

Anders chuckled. It sounded a lot better than _his_ post-Deep Roads plans, which included disappearing back into the refuse of Darktown and being forgotten by Hawke and his companions. Maybe he could allow Hawke to spoil him once before vanishing.

Hawke bounded ahead to walk with Varric. Anders sighed and shook his head. Flames, he knew he wasn't going to be able to tear himself away. Hawke was a good friend, one of the best he'd ever had, and the man was going to keep coming back, and Anders knew he didn't have the strength or the will to send him away.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke’s smile was a brittle thing as he picked up the latest in a long series of mugs. “Mother spoke to the Viscount, and I should be able to buy back the estate by the end of the year,” he said.

Varric smiled back and patted Hawke’s arm. “And you’ll have plenty of coin left to get the place cleaned up and furnished properly,” he said. “Like the nobility you are.”

“A titled apostate,” Hawke said. “Whatever would Meredith do if she found out?”

Anders shuddered a bit in spite of himself. The image of Hawke, branded and empty-eyed, came entirely too easy to him, pulled from his nightmares and darkest fears. “I thought the point of all this money was to make sure that the Templars can’t touch you,” he said.

“It’ll give them pause, that’s for certain,” Hawke replied. The smile finally cracked and disappeared, and he scowled into his mug before downing half the contents in one go. “They wouldn’t want to make a scene in Hightown. Might offend the neighbors’ delicate sensibilities, and not even the Templars want to deal with a sniveling lord’s wife.”

The man couldn’t stop cracking jokes. Anders recognized the shield for what it was; Maker knew he’d carried one of his own for long enough. Since Justice, though, he couldn’t hide like that, not from himself and not from the world. He wore his heart on his crudely stitched sleeve. Sometimes he missed it, the deflection and dance and barriers that kept everything out. Now he used honesty and his cause to shove the world away.

“Quit brooding!” Hawke elbowed him in the side, jostling him out of his thoughts. “That’s Fenris’s job. You’re a wealthy man, Anders, cheer up!”

Anders dredged up a weak smile. “I’m staying in Darktown, you know,” he said. “Newfound wealth or not.” Most of his share would go into the clinic or the underground. He’d thought about buying a new blanket for himself, if only to keep from freezing to death in the coming winter. He couldn’t help anyone if he was dead.

Hawke made a face. “You could afford a place in Lowtown, easy,” he said.

Anders shrugged. “The Templars patrol Lowtown,” he said. “They don’t come to the Undercity. And if they do, there are plenty of people willing to run and warn me so I can get out.”

“Oh, fine, be all sensible,” Hawke said. He finished off the rest of his ale and added the empty mug to the cluster at the end of the table. “Do give my brother my regards if you see him on a raid, would you?”

“By ‘your regards,’ I assume you mean a sharp blow to the head?” Anders asked dryly.

Hawke snorted. “Sounds like a decent place to start,” he grumbled, and signaled for another round.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

_Hawke's beard scrapes against his chest as he slides down, slow, so fucking slow and it's torture and he loves every last second of it--_

Anders had sworn he wouldn't do this again. He was just feeding the fire with this. He had to stop. He had to.

His hand dragged down his chest, and he hooked his fingers into the top of his smalls.

 _Hawke kisses him low on his stomach, nuzzling at the faint sprinkling of hair, and pulls his smalls away. “Somebody's eager,” he murmurs, not quite laughing, and slides a hand over Anders's cock._

Anders groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, arching up off his cot as he wrapped his fingers around himself. It wasn't right, wasn't what he wanted, his own fingers too long and too familiar. At least he could pretend the staff calluses were the same.

 _He teases him, all light touches and playful fingers on his thighs. Anders twists underneath him and bites his lip. He won't beg. Not yet, anyway. Hawke chuckles. “You've waited so long,” he murmurs. “I won't make you suffer much.”_

He spat into his hand, hating the break in the illusion, and wrapped slick fingers around his cock. His breath hissed out between his teeth. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough but it was all he would ever get, all he'd ever let himself have.

 _Hawke takes him in slowly, humming in pleasure as he swallows around Anders's cock. Anders whimpers and grips the edge of the cot with his free hand. Hawke's as good as his word, though, and doesn't drag it out: he moves faster, lips tight around him, tongue swirling around the head every time he draws back. Anders gasps and bucks upward, moaning as he comes--_

\--into his hand instead of down Hawke's throat. His eyes flew open and he stared up at the ceiling, panting quietly in the silence of his empty clinic. He grimaced, disappointed with the situation and himself, as always. Anders rolled over and wiped his hand on the edge of his blanket, then curled into a ball, his face buried in his pillow.

This was turning into an obsession. A distraction. He couldn't do this, not anymore; he had to focus on the mage underground, the clinic, his writing. And even without all that, getting involved with someone now would be a disaster. He was an apostate mage and runaway Grey Warden with the remains of a spirit in his mind and soul, never mind the fact that life in the Circle hadn't exactly taught him _how_ to have a normal relationship. He was a blighted mess and he knew it. He'd only end up hurting Hawke, in the end.

Anders huddled in on himself and sighed. That didn't make _his_ hurt any less.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hi.”

Hawke closed the clinic door behind him, looking... nervous? Except Hawke didn't get nervous. Anders glanced up from his workbench and frowned. “Something wrong?”

“No! Yes? Maybe.” He sidled up to Anders and leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “I sort of need to hide.”

“Ah.” Anders nodded. “Your mother again?”

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Apparently the Remingtons have a daughter about my age,” he said. “Whoever they are.”

“People of wealth and taste, obviously.”

“Wealth, yes. Taste... still unknown.”

Anders smirked. “Well, they must have some sense of quality, if they're throwing their daughter at you.” Three years of knowing the man, of friendship, of telling himself that it would go _no further_... and he couldn't stop flirting with him. Or thinking about him, or fantasizing about him, or obsessing over him, to be perfectly honest.

Hawke grinned. “Well, when you put it like that, I'm surprised I'm not getting more marriage proposals.” He shook his head. “Not that I want them, really.”

“Not enjoying the life of nobility?” Anders finished stripping the elfroot leaves from the stems and gathered them up for storage.

“Well, there's some parts I like. The money's nice. The house. The clothes. The wine. Throwing big parties for my friends.” Hawke smirked. “Financing my friend's martyr complex.”

“It's called a clinic,” Anders replied primly, closing the lid on the box of elfroot. “And... thank you, again, for that.”

Hawke rolled his eyes. “What else am I supposed to do with the money? Commission a statue of myself to rival the one in the Chantry? I'd rather all that ill-gotten coin did some good.” He reached over and poked Anders in the side. “Though you're supposed to use some of it to buy food.”

“I buy food,” he replied vaguely.

“For _yourself._ ” Hawke raised his eyebrows. “Don't make me tell my mother that you're not eating again.”

Anders held up his hands in surrender. “I'm eating, I swear,” he said. “Please, I don't need another flood of well-intentioned muffins.”

Hawke chuckled. “So, yes, all that is fine and good,” he said. “But all these parties and politics and nobles... not exactly the life I wanted.”

“What sort of life did you want?” Anders asked, swallowing against the taste of steel in his mouth. Sometimes he wished he could put down The Cause for five bloody minutes and just have a conversation with his friend, but already he was composing a new section in his manifesto. _Mages, like all people born into the world, desire the same basic things as everyone else: life, liberty, love..._

“I don't know.” Hawke shrugged, tracing a finger over a gouge in the workbench's wooden surface. “A house in the countryside. A garden, a dog. Someone to share the house with.” He glanced up at Anders and smiled, warm and open and other things that Anders refused to give name to because if he did his resistance might just crack completely. “Maybe a cat or two.”

Damn him. Anders looked away and picked up a handful of spindleweed. “It's all that any of us wants,” he said. “We don't want to be magisters or slavers. We just want a chance to have a normal life, like anyone else.”

Hawke smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, and he returned to his position against the wall. “Unfortunately for that argument, I'm not exactly a stellar example of 'normal,'” he said. “Might want to leave me out of your next draft.”

Anders huffed out a weak laugh. “Fair enough.”

“My father would be a much better example, anyway.” Hawke shrugged. “He was a farmer, raised a family, friends with the neighbors... they saw a person, not a mage.” Anders glanced up at him. “That's what you're after, right?” Hawke continued. “For the rest of the world to stop defining us by our magic first.”

Anders blinked, then held up a finger before dashing across the room to his desk. He fumbled for a scrap of paper and a quill and started jotting down notes. Hawke laughed and ambled towards him. “Maybe just include me in the dedication instead,” he said, squeezing Anders's shoulder as he passed.

“You're leaving?” Anders asked, tearing his eyes away from the paper for a second.

Hawke grabbed his staff and shrugged. “Yeah. You're working, I don't want to be a bother. I'll go up to the Hanged Man, annoy Isabela and Varric for a while.”

Anders blinked at him for a moment. He could ask Hawke to stay. Tell him he wasn't that busy, finish with his notes, and they could just sit and talk through the night until the sun came up. It had happened a few times in the past three years, and Anders treasured each of those nights. But none of that was conducive to putting some distance between them. Friendship was acceptable. Hawke supported the cause, supported him, but that was all it could be. Anything more was a distraction. A danger to them both.

“Have fun,” he said instead. “Tell them I said hello.”

He kept his eyes on the paper so he didn't have to see the look of disappointment on Hawke's face. “You bet,” Hawke said. “I'll see you later.”

“Later,” Anders agreed. The door clicked shut, and he sighed, rubbing a hand across his lips. His mouth was heavy with the taste of steel. It was supposed to be reassuring, he guessed, evidence that he'd done the right thing, but it just felt like regret.

When Varric casually mentioned, about a week later, that Hawke had slept with Isabela, he couldn't find it in him to be surprised. Heartbroken, bitter, and so full of self-loathing and regret and jealousy that it almost choked him, yes, but not surprised. Anders had gotten what he wanted. Hawke had finally moved on.


	7. Chapter 7

“See you later, Varric,” Hawke called as he came to a stop in front of a street vendor. The dwarf waved over his shoulder and disappeared around a corner. Anders started to slip past; Hawke grabbed his elbow, the metal claws on his new gauntlets just barely biting into his skin, and held him in place. He didn't let go as he paid for a pair of paper cones stuffed with something that smelled amazing. “Here you go,” he said, passing one of them to Anders and heading for the stairs, clearly expecting Anders to follow.

Which, of course, he did, as always. After three years, the habit was ingrained, something he couldn't quit, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead Anders stared at Hawke, admiring the new armor he'd picked up. He'd finally worn through his father's battered coat, the enchantments faded, and Hawke had given in and gotten something new. Not robes, though; a dark leather jerkin and thick, black leather pants that clung in some very intriguing ways. He didn't look like a mage, save for the staff on his back. It was how it should be, Anders thought absently, running a hand down the stitches on his sleeves. People shouldn't look like mages or not-mages. They were just people, all of them, with the gifts the Maker had given them.

Or maybe he really just liked the way the way Hawke's ass looked in the new trousers. It was hard to tell.

Hawke came to a stop at the end of a catwalk overlooking the bay, and by extension, the Gallows. He pulled his staff off his back with one hand, setting it down behind him as he sat on the edge, legs dangling over the side. “Sit,” he said, patting the spot beside him.

“Are we watching for something?” Anders asked, carefully easing himself down next to Hawke. His knee popped as he went, and he winced. Just another reminder that he'd be thirty in a few months. Maker, but he felt so much older than that.

“Hm?” Hawke paused in unwrapping his food and shook his head. “Oh, no. We're just enjoying a well-earned victory snack.”

“Victory snack?” Anders repeated. Looking over, he could see that the paper cone contained some kind of candied nuts.

“Mm-hm.” Hawke popped a couple into his mouth and nodded. “We rescued a fellow mage from slavery and suffering. That merits some kind of reward.”

Anders nodded. A fairly simple job from Selby, one that she'd offered to Hawke over Anders's objections. She and Bancroft kept the underground organized and safe, just ahead of the Templars hunting them. Anders knew he was a bit off a wild card in their plans; they appreciated his help, but he tended to act alone as often as not. But they took his aid when he offered, when he felt safe enough working with others. They were the ones who'd shown him the tunnels into the Gallows. Already, he'd brought four groups of mages out and to freedom.

Hawke elbowed him in the side. “I know _you_ think you can sustain yourself on nothing but righteous anger and rejuvenation spells,” he said, “but I'm reasonably certain you do need to eat every now and then.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “You sound like your mother,” he grumbled but unwrapped the food anyway. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the ships, until a thought occurred to him. “Did you know I liked chestnuts?” Anders asked.

Hawke shrugged. “You mentioned it,” he replied, looking everywhere but at Anders.

“When?”

Another shrug. “A while ago.”

Anders frowned. He couldn't even remember the conversation where that had come up, but apparently Hawke had committed it to memory. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Or, worse, he _was_ sure, but he didn't know what to do with it. “How's Isabela?” he asked instead.

“Good question,” Hawke replied. “I haven't seen her in almost a week. ...Maker, I hope she hasn't gotten arrested again. Aveline's always so _smug_ and Isabela gets even more obnoxious towards her.”

“You don't-- I thought you and Isabela were...” Admittedly, Anders's knowledge of normal romantic relationships was thin, largely based on hearsay and tawdry novels, but knowing whether or not one's partner was in prison seemed like a reasonable expectation.

Hawke looked at him, finally, golden eyes wide and surprised. “She and I were-- oh, no. No, no, no. I mean, we slept together a few times, but we're friends. She made it clear that's all she wanted, and she's... not really my type for something serious.” He narrowed his eyes at Anders. “Where'd you hear that from?”

“Varric,” he replied, forcing himself not to smile despite the elation bursting in his chest. It shouldn't have made him so happy, knowing that Hawke wasn't involved with Isabela, but there it was. Somewhere underneath the giddiness was disapproval, which always tasted like lead rather than the typical steel. It was a relief, in a weird way, to know that something of Justice remained intact, buried and fragmented throughout his soul. It was some sign that he hadn't completed destroyed his friend.

Hawke sighed. “That dwarf must be stopped,” he muttered. “I swear, some days I think he's got my entire life written out somewhere and he's just trying to manipulate me into acting it out.”

“That's... a little paranoid.”

“Only paranoid if it's not true.”

“I'm pretty sure it's not true.”

Hawke chuckled. “If you say so.” He finished his snack and crumpled the paper into a ball, tossing it into the air and attempting to drop-kick it. It missed his foot and fell to the ground below. “Oops,” he muttered, leaning forward to peer down after it. “Oh, well.” With a sigh, he settled back on his elbows, gazing up at the late-afternoon sky.

This was how it should be, Anders thought. Two friends spending an afternoon together, out on the street under the free skies, and no one should care if they bore swords or staves. Equality, that was the goal. Not dominance or power. Just being treated like every other person born in Thedas.

“You really can't put it down, can you?” Hawke said. Anders glanced over; Hawke was studying him, head tilted to the side. “The cause. I can tell when you're thinking about it.” He frowned deeply, eyes narrowing a bit, and it took Anders a moment to realize it was an impression of _him_. “It's like you go a thousand leagues away.”

“That'd put me near Weisshaupt, I think,” Anders replied with false lightness. It worked, though. Hawke chuckled, his eyes crinkling a bit as he smiled. It looked so much better on him than the frown that he apparently saw on Anders's face. “You're right, though,” Anders continued. “I can't _not_ think about it. I'm just... I'm always aware of it,” he gestured towards the Gallows, “everything that mages suffer, everything the Templars grind into dust under their heels, everything that's been destroyed because of the Chantry's fear...”

“Yeah.” Hawke frowned. “I mean, I know about it, I do what I can to help, but it's not constant, I guess.” He glanced at Anders. “It sounds exhausting, carrying that around all hours.”

“It can be,” he admitted. “But I made a choice. I couldn't keep ignoring it.” Warmth pulsed through him, something akin to comfort, with pangs of regret. He frowned, wondering exactly what it was that Justice regretted. Maybe inflicting this on him, leaving him to carry the burden alone. Well... for some definition of alone, anyway.

“You don't have to do it alone, you know,” Hawke said, nearly echoing his thoughts. “I _am_ willing to help. As demonstrated today, I hope.” He smiled, but there was something else in his gaze, something that looked like quiet desperation.

Anders looked away. “It's dangerous, Hawke. Especially for someone as visible as you.”

Hawke sighed. “Anders...”

“I can't bear the thought of them taking you,” he said, all in a rush, forcing the words out before the steel could clamp around them like a trap. “If the Templars caught you, I—I'd--”

“Drown the city in blood?” Hawke suggested wryly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Anders said. “Maker help Kirkwall if they caught you, Hawke. If they killed you, made you Tranquil...” Steel and lightning on his tongue and in his veins, for once every part of him in agreement. He'd show Kirkwall the true meaning of vengeance. It'd kill him, to be sure, but he'd take the Gallows down with him.

“They're not gonna take me, Anders.” Hawke's voice was calm, confident, and his hand was warm on Anders's knee. Anders stared at it. How long had it been since someone had touched him outside his role as healer? “I've avoided them for twenty-eight years. I'm pretty good at it by now.”

Anders risked a glance at his face. Hawke was watching him, eyes wide, lips parted, hope and wanting written all over him. Anders knew he could kiss him, and Hawke would kiss him back, both of them tasting like honey and warmth. Then Hawke would smile at him and it would change everything.

“I ought to get back to the clinic,” Anders said, pulling his knee away from Hawke as he turned to grab his staff. He didn't need to go over the reasons it wouldn't work again, not when he knew them by heart. It was hurting them both now, perhaps, but eventually Hawke would get over him and move on. It'd be better for him in the long run. That was Anders's life now: he made the immediate, personal sacrifice so that others might live happy and free in the future.

“All right,” Hawke sighed, making no move to follow him. “I'll see you around.”

Anders forced a smile into his voice, if not onto his face. “Thanks for the victory snack.”

“Anytime.” Hawke didn't turn, his gaze fixed on the Gallows, the early evening breeze ruffling his hair. Anders watched him for a moment, burning the image into his memory, then turned and began the walk back to Darktown.


	8. Chapter 8

He'd thought that the nightmares would stop. With Justice in his mind, they were supposed to end. He hadn't really been clear on how that would work, but Maker, he'd hoped. They both had. Like everything else, they'd meant it for the best. And like nearly everything else, it had gone wrong somewhere.

Anders stared into the darkness, his hands pressed against the stone walls. He couldn't see a thing, but he knew the room perfectly. He'd spent a year of his life in it, after all, he knew every inch of it. “Just a dream,” he whispered. “It's just a dream...”

But there was doubt, and that was the real fear, that he'd never gotten out of that room. That he was still there, trapped in the darkness, and everything that had come after, the Wardens, Kirkwall, Hawke, it was all a fiction crafted by a demon while it drained his life force.

Blinding terror shot through him and propelled him to the door. “Please,” he begged, screamed, pounding his fists against the wood, “please, please, let me go... let me go, please, mercy, please let me go... let me wake up or let me go, please...” He drew in a sobbing breath, and he sank to his knees, forehead pressed to the door. “Please let me wake up,” he whispered.

Silence. It used to be that this was the point in the nightmare where a demon or two would appear, offering him freedom in exchange for the trifling matter of his mortal form, but ever since Justice, no demons appeared. Apparently mages could only hold one denizen of the Fade in their minds at a time. He almost missed the demons, though. At least they made it clear when he was dreaming or not. There wasn't the horrible, nagging doubt that whispered to him of darkness, of brief moments of awareness before he plunged back into the dream of Kirkwall and Hawke...

The door creaked and pushed inward-- not to open, but to crush him as the wall slid forward. Anders recoiled and hit the wall behind him. He threw his hands out, as though somehow that would stop it, gasping for breath as the last of the air disappeared in the shrinking room--

He jolted awake, gasping, face damp with tears, and blinked at the dim clinic. His own panic and terror nearly drowned it out, but there was regret, too, regret that came with a taste of steel. “I know,” Anders whispered, wrapping his arms around himself. “I know you wanted to help.”

The regret shifted, took on shades of warmth. An attempt at comfort, the only thing the spirit could offer now. Anders scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't what they'd hoped for, but at least he wasn't alone.


	9. Chapter 9

He hadn't come to the Fade since he'd merged with Justice. And this was why.

Anders wasn't sure how long they'd been in Feynriel's dream. It was hard enough keeping track of time when he was in control of himself, but now, riding as a passenger in his own skin, he had no idea. Justice controlled him. Them? There was no sense of hostility from the spirit, only relief. Anders, meanwhile, was swinging between panic at the feeling of being trapped and guilt for doing this to Justice every day. Every decision he made, everything he did with his body, Justice had to witness and experience, whether he approved or not.

Fenris had given into the demon of pride, something which Anders had silently vowed to bring up every single time the elf started ranting about the weakness and dangers of mages. Hawke had made a similar vow, albeit aloud and far more sarcastically. And now Isabela had fallen to the desire demon. Hawke barely seemed surprised, cracking jokes as she turned on him.

“Come,” Justice said as the last shade disappeared. “We must find Feynriel.”

“Wait.” Hawke grabbed his arm; Justice pulled away, and Anders felt a rush of uncertainty. He tried to send a feeling of reassurance to Justice. Hawke was a friend, it was all right. “We've... never really been able to talk, you and I.”

“What would we have to talk about?” Justice replied. Confusion along with the uncertainty, now.

“Oh, quite a lot, really,” Hawke said, moving to stand between Justice and the door. “But right now I'm just trying to figure out how this works, exactly.” He waved a hand at Anders's body. “Anders told me that you were gone. But... we seem to be having a conversation right now, so you can't have disappeared entirely.”

“I am stronger here,” Justice replied. “Stronger than I could possibly be in your world. I am a part of Anders now. But there is enough of me to still have some awareness.”

“Is... Anders aware of this conversation?” Hawke asked, meeting his eyes.

“Yes.”

Hawke blinked. “Ah.” He frowned, gaze dancing around the room as he thought. “Are you the one holding him back?” Hawke finally asked.

“Holding him back from what?”

“Should've known I'd have to lay it out for you,” Hawke muttered and took a step forward, coming within a few inches of Anders's body. “Holding him back from me,” he said. “Even a blind man could see that there's something here,” he gestured between them, “but he keeps pulling back. Is that you or him?”

“I do not control him,” Justice replied. “In your world, Anders makes his decisions freely.”

There was no disguising the disappointment that passed over Hawke's face. “I see.” Anders felt his heart crack just a little more. He'd tried to tell him, tried to warn him of all the reasons it couldn't be. There was an answering pulse of sympathy from Justice; the spirit moved his right hand to his left wrist and squeezed, an imitation of the comforting gesture Justice had often used when they'd been two separate bodies.

Hawke looked away, then shook his head and turned towards the door. He'd just reached the threshold when he spun around again; Justice stumbled backwards to keep from colliding with him. “One more thing,” Hawke said. “What do you think of me?”

Justice blinked. “What do you mean?”

Hawke shrugged. “Do you like me, tolerate me, think I'm a nuisance, does Anders spend every moment in my presence restraining you from seizing control and throttling me-- it's the latter, well done, Anders, I very much appreciate it.”

“I do not dislike you.” Justice didn't appear to get the joke; then again, he rarely did.

“Is that anything like the Arishok's 'I do not hope you die'?” Hawke asked. “Because I feel about as reassured right now.”

Justice shook his head. “You understand the plight of mages and you support Anders in his fight for freedom,” he said. “But you are a distraction. Anders...” Justice hesitated as Anders mentally threw himself at the spirit, begging him not to continue. “It is dangerous, for you both, if you get too involved,” Justice concluded. Anders did his best to radiate gratitude.

“Hm.” Hawke looked thoughtful. “Well, I think you're both wrong,” he said cheerfully. “And I've been told that one of my defining traits, behind the devastating good looks and the witty humor, is stubbornness.” He stepped forward and grabbed the front of Anders's jacket; Justice brought his arms up halfway, uncertain if this was an attack or not. “I am not giving up on you.” He grinned, somewhere between affectionate and predatory, then released him and turned away again. “C'mon. Let's go get Feynriel and get out of here.”

Justice followed and stood silently as Hawke spoke with Feynriel, encouraging him to go to Tevinter and learn to use his powers. Then the Fade warped around them, and Anders could feel himself sliding back into control. It was eerily similar to pulling on a coat.

Anders had resolved to stay quiet and flee as soon as he was able, though he couldn't help but feel a bit smug as Isabela and Fenris offered their awkward apologies. “I find there's nothing like being possessed to keep you on the straight-and-narrow,” Anders said, arms folded over his chest, smirking bitterly at Fenris. The elf scowled at him.

Hawke snorted. “Maybe a little too narrow, sometimes,” he said without looking at Anders. “Go home, all of you. I need a drink.”

“Me too,” Isabela muttered. Fenris just nodded and followed her out the door. The two of them fled up the stairs and out of the alienage. Hawke watched them go, his face shadowed, lines appearing around his mouth that Anders hadn't seen before. He swallowed hard and tried to slip away without notice. “Oh, no you don't,” Hawke muttered, grabbing his arm.

Anders closed his eyes for a moment. “Garrett, please,” he said. “Don't-- don't make this any harder than it has to be.”

“It's been three years, Anders,” Hawke replied, not releasing his grip. “I'm not getting over it.”

He stared at a wooden barrel in the corner and clenched his jaw. “You have to,” he said. “I'm sorry.” He yanked his arm free, hating himself, and ran for the stairs. He heard Hawke shout his name, but he kept running, and he didn't stop until he reached Darktown.


	10. Chapter 10

The scene was familiar. Horribly, painfully, absolutely familiar: Templars surrounding a young apprentice, the apprentice begging for mercy, offering to do anything, anything they ask, just don't hurt me, ser, don't make me Tranquil... Justice pushed at him, cracked through for a moment, and Anders wrestled him back down. “No,” he murmured, hands shaking. “No, this is their place... we cannot...” Not here. He had never lost control so close to the Gallows. To do so here... all it would take was one Templar to get away, to tell the others, and he would be lost.

“Isn't it against Chantry law for Templars to take personal advantage of their charges?” Hawke asked, voice hard and brittle and as righteous as Justice could ever be.

Alrik turned. “Who's this?”

“It's the Divine,” Varric said dryly, “come all the way from Orlais to tell you, personally, what a jackass you are.”

Alrik scoffed. “Take her,” he said, gesturing at the apprentice. “I'll deal with them.”

The Templars stepped towards the girl. And she wasn't some unknown girl anymore; she was Neria and Maribelle and Rose, all the girls in the Circle who'd come to him, eyes down, hands clenched tight in their robes, asking if he'd heal the bruises or stop the bleeding or _just make it go away, Anders, please, I can't bear that monster's child_. She was Karl with the brand and she was him, seventeen years old and shackled to the wall while the Knight-Captain lashed him again and again and again--

Justice surged up through him, electric under his skin, fueled by so many years of rage and hate and sorrow. “You fiends will never touch another mage again!” they screamed, neither Anders nor Justice but something else, something more.

Then there was nothing beyond the fight. Magic crackling through the air, their staff slamming against metal helms, the Templars screaming as they fell before fire and ice and lightning. Alrik dropped somewhere in the middle of it, and they barely noticed beyond driving the end of their staff into the man's face.

And then the Templars were dead, but it wasn't over. It was never over. The Gallows was filled with monsters like them. “They will die!” they snarled into the echoing silence. “I will have every last Templar for these abuses!”

“It's over, Anders,” Hawke said. “They're all dead.”

Hawke didn't understand. He'd never been in a Circle, he couldn't-- “Every one of them will feel justice's burn!” they snapped, whirling on him.

“Get away from me, demon!” The apprentice cowered back from them, hands held protectively over her head.

“I am no demon!” they snarled. The Templars, they'd called Justice a demon, possessing a corpse; they'd tried to destroy him. They destroyed _everything._ “Are you one of them that you would call me such?”

“Anders!” Hawke again, cutting through the roaring in their ears. “That girl is a mage. We rescued her from being made Tranquil!”

She would tell the Templars about them. Call them demon, maleficar, apostate, abomination, and they would come and put the brand to them and take away _everything_. All of their hate and rage and grief and joy and laughter and love, Maker but he had so much love in him if only he could... all of it, gone, if she were allowed to go back to the Templars. “She is theirs! I can feel their hold on her!” they retorted.

“She's the reason you're fighting, Anders! Don't turn on her now!”

Hawke was right. Anders came back to himself as Justice drew on the power of the Fade, of his body, raising his arms to strike the girl down, and it was the Templars and Wardens all over again, except she hadn't betrayed them, hadn't hurt anyone, she was just a child and if he killed them he'd be no better than the Templars--

Justice faltered, and that was all the opening Anders needed. He seized control of his body; Justice fought, lightning and lead struggling against him, but he shoved the spirit back down. His legs gave out as the girl scrambled to her feet and ran. “Maker, no,” he breathed, his entire body trembling. Hawke moved towards him, holding out a hand. “I almost... if you hadn't been here...” Anders lurched to his feet, stumbling away from Hawke, from the concern in his eyes and the support he offered. “I-I need to get out of here,” he stammered, and then he ran, racing through the tunnels he knew all too well, back up into Darktown.

He barely managed to get the door to the clinic unlocked, hands shaking so badly he could hardly hold the keys. He slammed the door shut behind him and tore his staff from his back, hurling it towards his cot as he staggered towards the chest that held the few belongings he'd collected over the years. He had to run. Again. He'd known it would happen, he always had to run, but... but not like this...

There was so little worth keeping. So little of his life worth holding onto. He'd never given in to despair, not even in solitary, but now he understood the urge to just lay down and wait for death. Or, better, to seek it out himself. Remove himself from the world before he hurt anyone again.

“Throwing everything out isn't going to make you feel better.” Hawke. He sounded out of breath, like he'd sprinted the entire way from the tunnels.

“Should I feel better?” Anders snapped. “You were the only thing that kept me from murdering an innocent girl!” He stood and turned to face Hawke. “Justice and I... it was a mistake, all of it. It's twisted us both into something... monstrous.”

Hawke shook his head and took a step forward. Anders retreated. His sanity was hanging by a thread as it was. If he lost control now... if he hurt _Hawke_... “So you're just going to stop? Let the Templars win?”

“Maybe they deserve to win. Maybe they're right!” Anders spread his arms. “How can I fight for the freedom of mages, when I am the example of the worst that freedom brings?”

“Anders, if healing the desperate and poor is the _worst_ that a mage did with his freedom, then the best must be the blighted Maker himself,” Hawke said. “You are _not_ a monster. You're a healer. You're a good man.”

Anders looked away and shook his head miserably. Hawke didn't understand, he couldn't see. Blinded by whatever he felt. “I can't even trust myself to heal anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “What if this… this thing of vengeance turns on a patient? Will he... will I... resist? Or will I loose his fury?”

If he'd been looking at Hawke, he might have been able to react faster. But Hawke closed the distance between them in three long strides and grabbed him by the arms before he could run. “In the three years I've known you, I have only seen you lose control of Justice twice,” Hawke said, voice low and urgent and desperate. “Both times, you were standing up against Templars who were abusing mages in the worst possible ways. And you regained control before you hurt anyone.” His fingers tightened on Anders's arms, almost hard enough to bruise, and he held Anders's gaze unwaveringly. “You. Are not. A monster.” Hawke punctuated the statement with a little shake, but something seemed to drain out of him with the declaration. He relaxed his grip, his shoulders slumped, though he didn't look away. “Maker, Anders, you're one of the best men I've ever met.”

That didn't speak highly to the quality of people in Hawke's life, if Anders was one of the best. Anders sagged slightly, wavering in place, and he suspected that it was only Hawke’s hold on him that kept him from falling. “Did you... find anything on Ser Alrik?” he asked, gaze sliding away from Hawke. “Or was it all another of my delusions?”

Hawke released him, finally, and reached for the pouch on his belt. “The plan exists,” he confirmed, “but it was Alrik's, no one else's.” He held out a sheaf of papers.

“Let me see that.” Anders scanned the letter quickly. “The Divine... rejected the idea. Meredith rejected the idea!” He swallowed hard against the steel in his mouth. Justice was as shocked as he was. “This was... not what I expected.” He looked up at Hawke. “Perhaps I should try talking to the grand cleric. Maybe she's more reasonable than I thought.” He glanced at the papers, then around the empty clinic. “Thank you. For... for everything.”

“You know I'd do anything to help you.”

Maker, no, he could not handle this, not from Hawke, not now. “What happened to the girl?” Anders asked instead, moving past Hawke to put the papers on his desk.

“She escaped,” Hawke said. “I told her to get her parents and where to find Selby. Fenris wasn't happy, but when he is ever?”

Anders planted his palms on the top of his desk and exhaled heavily, head bowed and eyes closed. “Good,” he said. “That's... that's good. Thank you.”

Hawke approached him cautiously, the same way Anders often approached stray cats in the alleys. “Are you all right?”

“No.” Anders opened his eyes. The words on the papers scattered in front of him blurred together, his vision swimming. “But I... I think I will be. I just... I need a little time.”

“Okay.” Hawke squeezed his shoulder, gently, but kept moving towards the doors. “If you need me, for anything, any time, you know where to find me.”

“Your house or Varric's suite.”

“Exactly.” He could hear the smile in Hawke's voice. “I'll see you soon, Anders.”

“See you.”

The clinic door closed behind him. Anders staggered over to his cot and dropped down on it, covering his face with shaking hands. “I can't go on like this,” he said to the empty room. “I can't do this alone.” There was a slight tang of steel; cautious, curious. “I don't want to do this alone.” The steel shifted to lead. Justice knew where this was going. “I need him. I-I love him.” Anders let out a shaky breath. Saying it aloud made it real.

And Justice did not approve. He could feel it, taste it in his throat. “No,” he said. “He has stood by me through everything. He understands, he supports what I'm fighting for, and he's never, _ever_ judged me for what I am. For what I've done.” The sense of disapproval was still strong. “No. I don't _care_ what you think of this, dammit. I'm a mage, I'm a man, I am one of the bloody oppressed that we're fighting for here, and I have the same damned right to life and liberty and _love_ as everyone else!”

Love that would only end in disaster. He would break Hawke's heart, he knew it. He would hurt him, hurt them both, someday. Anders screwed his eyes shut and groaned. Maybe when Hawke came back things would make more sense. Right now, he needed sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

“When you get like this, I don’t think anyone could turn you down.” Hawke smiled, eyes sparkling, flirting as he always did. Probably not expecting anything to come of it. But Anders had spent the past two days in a haze, barely sleeping, torn between fear and _wanting_ so badly he could barely think of anything else.

It wasn’t much of an opening, Hawke’s line, but Anders grabbed onto it anyway. “I’ve tried to hold back,” he said, suddenly serious, forcing himself to hold Hawke’s gaze. “You've seen what I am. What I almost did to that girl. But I’m still a man. You can’t keep teasing me like this and expect me to resist forever.” It was a last chance for Hawke to turn him aside, to stop this, because Maker knew he couldn’t.

The smile softened, turned a bit wistful, and Anders knew they were both done for. “Maker’s blood, Anders,” Hawke said. “I never _wanted_ you to resist.”

Anders swore he felt something physically snap in his chest. The last of his willpower, perhaps. He closed the distance between them and grabbed Hawke’s shoulders, crushing their bodies together before he kissed him. Three years of wanting and longing and aching, and so many years before that of settling for what little he could grab, of holding back and never getting too close… It was desperate and messy and rough, and Hawke kissed him back just as hard.

They parted for a few seconds, gasping for breath, blinking at each other. Then Hawke leaned in and kissed him again. “We could both die tomorrow,” Anders murmured, unwilling or unable to move away, his hands still tangled in Hawke’s hair. “I didn’t want it to be without doing that.”

Hawke smirked and bumped their noses together. “So, that’s it then, hm? You can die happy now?”

Maybe. Happier than he would have been three minutes ago, perhaps. Anders leaned his forehead against Hawke’s. “If you’re with me, we’ll be hunted. Hated. I can’t—I can’t give you a normal life.” Hawke could still walk away, still save himself the heartbreak.

“Anders, have you _seen_ my life? I’ve never had normal,” Hawke said, tightening his grip on Anders’s waist. “And I don’t particularly want it. I want this. I want _you._ ”

Anders blinked at him, a slow, elated smile spreading across his face. He was all nervous energy, hands skimming across Hawke’s shoulders and back, though what he really wanted to do was wrap himself around the other man, bury his face in his shoulder, and never, ever let go. He could barely sense Justice; the spirit had retreated, leaving this entirely in his hands. Maker be praised.

Someone rapped on the door of the clinic; Hawke swore colorfully under his breath. Anders flashed a rueful smile and forced himself to release the other man. “I’ll come to your place tonight,” he said. “If your door is open…”

“How open are we talking here?” Hawke asked. “I mean, I’ll prop the damn thing open with a brick or something, I don’t care how cold it is.”

Anders huffed out a laugh. “I, uh, I think unlocked is sufficient.”

“Right.” Another knock at the door. Hawke sighed, then leaned in and kissed Anders again, quick and gentle. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight.”

 _*_

There was a scrap of parchment wedged into the crack beside the handle in the front door of the Hawke estate. Anders paused and plucked it free, unfolding it to read the familiar, messy scrawl. _Open!_ it said simply, with an arrow pointing in towards the house.

Anders grinned. Maker, but he loved that man. He slipped the parchment into his pocket and pushed the door open. The front room was empty, save the mabari, who was sound asleep in front of the fire. Anders leaned his staff in the corner against the stairs, then bounded up them as silently as he could.

Garrett was leaning against the bedpost, arms folded, staring into the fire. He looked up at the sound of Anders's footsteps on the tile, and the smile on his face-- happy, _relieved_ \-- made something warm bubble up in Anders's chest. “You're here,” Garrett breathed. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”

Anders pushed the door shut behind him. “Justice does not approve of my obsession with you,” he said wryly. “It is one of the few things on which he and I disagree.” Justice had retreated again, perhaps recognizing that there was no way he was talking Anders out of this. So to speak.

“If you'd been another few minutes, I was going to go out looking for you,” Garrett said. “Disapproving spirit or no.”

He huffed out a weak laugh, his gaze dancing in the space that still separated them. “Are you sure you want me here?” Anders asked. “I mean, you and Isabela...”

Garrett heaved a sigh. “Anders. She is a dear friend. But that's all.” He frowned, a flicker of worry passing through his eyes. “You know, you're starting to make me nervous, offering all these outs.” He tried to smile, clearly reaching for his standard shield of jokes to protect himself, but it didn't quite work. “Do _you_ want to be here?”

“Yes,” Anders said immediately. “I do, Garrett, I just...” He shook his head, trying to figure out how to explain everything, how to settle the thoughts swirling in his head. “In the Circle, love wasn't something real. We played at it, but it never... we could never let it mean anything. It gave the Templars too much power if there was something you couldn't stand to lose.” Nightmarish visions of Garrett, dragged away by the Templars, bleeding to death on cold stone or Tranquil with dead eyes, flickered through his mind. He hated it, hated himself, hated that he couldn't just accept that he was being given something good and right and beautiful without fear. “It would kill me to lose you.”

“This isn't going to fix that,” Garrett said, voice low and honest, as he stepped closer.

Anders looked back at him, their eyes finally meeting, and his breath caught in his chest. It was everything he wanted, everything he'd told himself he could never have: someone who'd seen the worst and best of him and yet still wanted him. He reached out to cradle the side of Garrett's face, his fingers glowing with healing energy because he couldn't help it, because that's what he did. Because that was who he was, a healer, always trying offer some small piece of comfort whenever he could. “No mage I know has ever dared to fall in love,” he murmured as Garrett stepped in closer. “This will be the rule I most cherish breaking.”

And then Garrett's lips were on his, their arms around each other, and there wasn't anything else he needed to say.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: non-explicit discussion of suicidal thoughts.

“So what were you and Fenris talking about earlier?”

Anders blinked. They'd been laying in silence for a while, curled up on the bed, listening to the fire and each other's breathing. The evening had taken a turn for the frigid and rainy, and Garrett had decided that going to bed early was the best course of action. “Earlier when?” he asked carefully.

“Earlier when you _weren't_ yelling at each other,” Garrett clarified, the smirk audible in his voice. He stroked his fingers through Anders's hair, his thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw with each pass. “That's the only reason I noticed, really. Normally I tune it out when you two start shouting.”

Anders shrugged. “Nothing important.” There was a sudden burst of lead on his tongue, and he frowned. So Justice didn't approve of his relationship with Garrett, but he also didn't approve of lying to him. Strange. The lead faded, replaced with a faint tang of steel and a general sort of pressure, the type of feeling that usually proceeded a burst of writing or starting a debate with one of Garrett's friends. He sighed.

Garrett's fingers paused for a moment. “Anders...”

Anders frowned and inched closer to Garrett, forcing himself to stay put when every instinct was telling him to run. “We were just talking about mages, again,” he began.

“As you do.”

“He still doesn't believe that mages outside Tevinter actually suffer and have very little power,” Anders continued bitterly. “And I... I don't know, I guess to make my point, I-I asked him if he'd ever thought about killing himself.” Garrett's hand stopped moving, his palm cupped over Anders's ear. When he didn't say anything, Anders kept talking, if only to fill the silence. “He said no, that it was a sin, and that death was worse than slavery.” Anders curled his fingers tightly against Garrett's ribs. “I said that some things were worse than death. And then we... just stopped talking.”

Several long seconds dragged by before Garrett spoke. “So you... you thought about it.” It wasn't a question.

“In the Circle. In—In solitary.” He shuddered in spite of himself, and Garrett's arm tightened around his waist. “I thought about it a lot during that year.”

“Why didn't you?” Garrett asked. “What-- Maker, I can't even imagine what you've been through, even with what you've told me, and I... What made you want to live?”

Anders chuckled, dry and bitter and mirthless. “It wasn't so much wanting to live as not wanting to die,” he replied. “It was spite, honestly. If I killed myself, then the Templars won. That was what they wanted. One less mage in the world. So I stayed alive to spite the bastards.”

Garrett was silent again for a few moments. Then his hand began to move again, gentle caresses along the side of Anders's face. “There are worse reasons, I suppose,” he murmured.

“Maybe.” Anders let his eyes drift closed. “I'm glad I didn't.”

Garrett's breath caught in his throat for a second. “Andraste's flaming sword, Anders,” he murmured, voice cracking a bit, “so am I.”


	13. Chapter 13

“She must return with me to Par Vollen. If you object, then we must fight.”

Garrett tilted his head back and looked up at the Arishok. Anders silently willed him to say no, to have some damned sense for once in his life, to back away from risk instead of running straight into its arms--

“All right,” Garrett said with a grin. “Let's dance.”

Anders couldn't stop the choked noise that escaped him at that. “Are you insane?” he hissed as the qunari began to herd the assembled nobles to the balconies. “Garrett, you can't--”

“I'll be fine,” he said.

Anders shook his head. “Love, _please--_ ”

Garrett wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and leaned their foreheads together. “After I kill him, the nobles will owe their lives to me,” he said. “To a mage. You know what that would mean for mages here?”

Steel and approval surged up in him, and Anders had never hated Justice more. “Garrett, you can't--”

The rest of his protest vanished against Garrett's lips, in a hard kiss that didn't last nearly long enough. “For luck,” Garrett said with a wink, then put a hand on his chest and pushed him backwards. Varric and Isabela each grabbed an arm and pulled him away.

“No,” Anders breathed. Garrett strolled out to the lower chamber of the throne room, twirling his staff in one hand, a cocky grin on his face. The Arishok hefted both weapons and raised them in a salute. Anders glanced over his shoulder at Isabela, who still had a death-grip on his arm. “If he dies--”

“I never expected him to be this much of a fool,” she muttered. “We're supposed to fight with him, dammit.”

Garrett met the Arishok's charge with a blast of ice. Anders had never felt so helpless.


	14. Chapter 14

Anders read the letter in his hands again. It was so rare for Selby to directly ask for his help, but here it was, a request that he come and take a look at an employee who'd hurt himself moving cargo. _He's been resting for three days,_ she'd written, which meant three mages, _but his head's just not getting any better._ Facing Tranquility, then. 

He swallowed hard. It had been close to a year since he'd last been into the Gallows, and it had almost ended in disaster. He'd almost lost everything. A thrill of fear shot through him, echoed and amplified by Justice's own concern, and he shuddered. Whenever he remembered what had happened, what they'd almost done, Justice's own regret and self-loathing were enough to make Anders feel sick. Even the letter that Garrett had gotten from the girl-- Ella, that was her name-- telling him that she was safe and free hadn't helped. It was only because of Garrett that she was alive.

There were days when Anders suspected it was only because of Garrett that he was still sane.

He was all right, most of the time. He worked in his clinic, the same as always, and came home to Garrett every night. But he didn't dare return to the fight for mage freedom. If he lost control again... Maker only knew how many innocent people he would kill if there wasn't anyone to stop him. And Garrett was the only one who could stop him.

Anders crumpled the letter in his fist and leaned an arm against the mantle. He was little better than an abomination. He'd destroyed his friend, turned Justice into something terrible. There was less and less distinction between them, now. He could always taste metal in his mouth, ever so faintly, and it was getting harder to tell Justice's emotions from his own. The longer Justice was inside of him, the more twisted and warped he became, changing from his friend into an all-too-familiar monster. Vengeance. That's what Justice was, now. That's what  _he_ was. An abomination of vengeance.

He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “I'm so sorry,” he murmured and tossed the letter into the fire. “I'm so, so sorry...”

Regret twisted in his chest, and he wasn't sure who it belonged to.


	15. Chapter 15

It was a good day

They were getting less and less common, Anders felt. He was constantly exhausted, with a good night's sleep a thing of myth and legend, and he couldn't stop worrying. About the mage underground, about the Templars coming to drag him and Garrett away, about Justice, about his patients... He'd almost passed out on the stairs coming home last night, and Garrett had all but carried him to bed and ordered him to take the next day off.

“I'm not going to stand by and watch you kill yourself,” Garrett had said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

So Anders had reluctantly mixed up a sleeping draught and drugged himself into unconsciousness. And he'd slept, finally, and for such a long time. He'd been awake for a few hours, now, but neither of them had made any effort to get out of bed. Why would he want to, when he was sleepy and warm and something close to safe, wrapped up in Garrett's arms. On days like this, he still couldn't forget about everything, but he could put it down for a little while. Feel a little more like a person, instead of a walking bundle of paranoia and nerves.

Garrett slid his fingers through Anders's hair, gently working out the tangles. “You're quiet,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Mm.” Anders shrugged and threw his arm around Garrett's waist. “Sleepy.”

“Still?” There was a note of laughter in Garrett's voice. “You slept for, like, thirteen hours already.” 

“I know.” He tilted his head back and smiled. “It's exhausting.”

Garrett chuckled, his answering smile looking more relieved than anything else, and he brushed his thumb against Anders's lips. “You need to rest more often,” he said. “Running yourself ragged doesn't help anyone.”

“Other than all the patients I treat.” Anders softened his words with a smile and a light kiss to Garrett's hand.

Garrett sighed. “Yes, until you collapse on the floor. Again.”

“That only happened _once_ , and there was a fever spreading--”

“I know.” Garrett pulled Anders back in against his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “My dearly beloved martyr.”

Anders snorted, not entirely sure if he should find that funny or not, and closed his eyes. He could feel Justice stirring, just a hint of impatience, but it wasn't the manic drive that he fell prey to sometimes. Perhaps the spirit was tired, too. Tomorrow he'd be back at work, seeing to his patients and making potions for Selby. But for today, they could just  _be_ .

“I love you,” Anders mumbled into Garrett's chest.

Garrett tightened his arms around him. “Love you, too.”


	16. Chapter 16

He sat at his desk in the clinic and watched his hope burn.

Two letters, read twice, then fed to the flames for safety. Safety. Anders made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. Maker, there was nowhere safe in Kirkwall anymore. Nowhere safe in Thedas, not for a mage who simply wanted to live free. Tevinter's blood magic and corruption were chains, just as much as the Templars and the brand. A gilded cage, perhaps, but one he had no desire for. All he wanted was a house in the countryside and someone to share it with, a few cats and a dog, and the right to use his gifts to help people.

Anders slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. Bancroft had left a letter for him in the night; while he'd slept safe in Hawke's mansion, the few survivors of the underground had fled Kirkwall ahead of the Templars. _If I'm to die for this, it won't be forgotten in some sewer,_ Bancroft had written. _Kirkwall is lost. We will regroup, rally elsewhere. For your own sake, and Hawke's, get out._

That, alone, might have been enough to break him, to know that the underground was gone, hunted into death or exile or worse. He'd seen some of his comrades, good mages, staring listlessly at the stones in the Gallows courtyard, the blood-red brand bright on their foreheads. He'd spent years working beside them, fighting for freedom, and now... now it was gone. The Templars were triumphant again, as always.

The Templars. He shuddered, lightning coursing under his skin. His second letter, from a contact in the Gallows, telling him that Meredith had sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment. One of the Templars was bragging about it, relishing the opportunity to put every man, woman, and child trapped within the Gallows to the sword. As though imprisoning them wasn't enough. As though beating, raping, torturing, breaking them into shells without hope wasn't enough. They still existed then, still breathed and walked and talked and cast spells, and that could not be tolerated. The Chantry would not stop until every mage was purged from Thedas.

He pressed his trembling hands flat against the desk, watching as blue cracks flickered in and out of existence. Powerless. Even with Justice, he was powerless. They feared him and his kind, feared him because they thought he had such _power_ , but there was nothing he could do to stop this.

Well. Not nothing.

His gaze slid to the top drawer of his desk. It was mostly stuffed with old copies of his manifesto, things he knew no one would want to read, because under that... well, if anyone found it, they'd likely kill him where he stood. Even Garrett. Anders squeezed his eyes shut against the vision of his lover standing before him with the papers in his hand, shock and betrayal and horror in his eyes.

But what choice was left to him? He couldn't stand by and let the mages be slaughtered. He couldn't stop the Templars. If he did this, it would likely kill him. But he'd go out fighting, on his feet, where no one could ignore it or bury it in the sewers. And before he died he would show the Templars what they truly had to fear. He would show the mages that cowering and hiding weren't their only options. He would set the blighted world on _fire_.

Anders pulled open the drawer and drew out the slim bundle of parchment. Scraps and notes and fragments collected over the years, meaningless until they were all put together. He didn't know whose idea it was, originally, his or Justice or the vengeful thing that existed where they bled into each other. That was almost all that was left, now. So many years together, sharing a body and mind and soul, and by now he barely sensed Justice's presence anymore. It was constant, now, the taste of steel, and the emotions were all his. It was just that who he was had been changed, utterly and completely, as what remained of Justice filtered out into him. Changed him into a man who could look at a plan like this and decide that yes, it was right. It was just.

He could do this. He had to. Anders swallowed hard, trying not to think of Garrett's face. He _had_ to, no matter what it would cost him. They'd had happiness for a while, happiness and joy and a love brighter than anything he'd ever known. But he'd known it couldn't last. He'd known he'd have to sacrifice it, sacrifice every last piece of himself, to the cause.

But Garrett... he wouldn't sacrifice him. Anders looked at the papers in front of him and sighed. He'd do it on his own. He had to protect Garrett from this. He'd bear the fallout of this on his shoulders. He could only hope that Garrett would understand. He didn't expect love or forgiveness or mercy... but understanding, one day, that he'd done it for that dream of freedom. For the house and the garden and the life that should have been theirs.


	17. Chapter 17

It had taken every ounce of willpower Anders possessed to turn his back on Garrett, to ignore him, to make him understand that this was it, this was good-bye. All the things he'd said about love and life and sacrifice-- it was what he _had_ to say, what Garrett had to know before it was all over. It would make the end bearable, knowing that he'd told Garrett he loved him one last time.

None of that made it any easier to stand there, feeling Garrett's gaze on his back. None of that kept him from wanting to turn around, to throw himself into his lover's arms, to tell him everything, to beg for forgiveness. It didn't make the sound of Garrett's slow, receding footsteps or the sound of the door clicking shut any less painful.

Anders managed to lock the door before his legs gave out, and he slid to the floor, huddled into a ball against the wood. He could barely breathe around the aching tightness in his chest. It had been years since he’d cried, not since they’d let him out of solitary, but now he found himself fighting back tears. It was for the best. It _had_ to be this way. It had to. It was the only way to keep Garrett safe, to shield him from what was to come. The only way that Anders knew how to love him now was to push him away.

But Maker, it _hurt_.

A faint thread of sorrow and regret, not his own, pulsed weakly through him. Anders had held the hands of the dying before; it was part of his job as healer. And that faint hint of emotion felt the same, a last squeeze before the life vanished completely.

And that was what broke him, the knowledge that he’d well and truly destroyed his friend, wrecked the spirit with his own weaknesses and failures. He was alone, completely and totally alone, for the first time in years. He’d killed Justice and driven Garrett away. He was alone, and he’d done it to himself.

A cracked, broken sob escaped his throat before Anders buried his face in his knees, shoulders trembling as he hugged his legs to his chest. Wrapping his own arms around himself wasn’t good enough, wasn’t what he needed, but it was all he’d get now. It was all he had left. Himself, his empty clinic, and the silence in his head.


	18. Chapter 18

The sky over Kirkwall was red.

Anders blinked slowly, staring at nothing, only half-listening as the others discussed him. Discussed what to do with him. He couldn’t feel Justice at all. He’d hoped that this would bring out something, some emotion or presence that wasn’t his own, but there was nothing. Only the taste of steel on his tongue, but that had been there for years.

It was like pouring salt into a glass of water, he thought idly. The salt was easy to see at first, a clear distinction, but the longer it was left in there, the harder it became to see. He could still taste it, though, and Anders almost smiled at the thought. How appropriate. The others had fallen silent, and he could hear Garrett’s boots crunching on the dirt and gravel behind him. Walking across the Chantry. A wave of hysteria swept over him, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Anders.” It was almost more a sigh than a word.

He swallowed hard, still staring straight ahead. “There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already thought of myself,” he said. “I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever--” destroyed his friend, and Maker, he was sorry, so sorry, “to achieve this. This is the freedom that all mages have been waiting for.”

Garrett was quiet, then he moved again, slowly walking around to face Anders. Anders blinked as Garrett dropped to one knee, putting them at eye level. “Look at me,” Garrett said, and he had no choice but to obey. Garrett looked… Anders didn’t have words for the look in his eyes. Lost and fearful and heartbroken and yet oddly calm. Garrett searched his face, brow creasing slightly. “Do you want to die?” he asked, quietly, so the others couldn’t hear.

Anders looked away. “It would be just,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a look of absolute grief pass over Garrett’s face.

“But do you want to?”

“I…” If given the choice, would he want to go on living? Would he want to keep breathing, walking, talking, fighting, loving? He looked back at Garrett, then shook his head, a tiny gesture that was easier than speaking.

Garrett sighed. He sounded old and bone-weary, his shoulders slumped and his hands hanging limp at his sides. Anders shifted slightly. He might not want to die, but he’d accepted it. He’d accepted that this was the end. But the waiting… he didn’t have the right to ask for anything, not anymore and certainly not from Garrett. “Please,” he asked anyway. “Just make it quick.”

Another look of grief and pain, this one less fleeting. “You know what the right thing to do is, Hawke,” Sebastian said, voice harsh. “It might be difficult, but it has to be done.”

“You’re right,” Garrett said, and slowly stood, wincing as his knee cracked. “I do know. But it won’t be difficult at all.” He looked down at Anders and held out his hand. Anders stared, uncomprehending, and looked up at Garrett. He couldn’t… he didn’t mean… “Come on,” Garrett said, and his lips twisted in something that could have been a smile. “The fight’s just getting started.”

It felt like that moment in his clinic, all those years ago, when he’d finally given himself permission to love this man. Anders almost smiled back, shaky and weak, and took Garrett’s hand.


	19. Chapter 19

Anders stood off to the side, away from the others, trying not to fidget. They wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t speak to him. It was only Garrett’s hand in his between street brawls that reminded him he was alive, not another ghost haunting the streets of Kirkwall. But now Garrett was speaking in low, urgent tones with Orsino, gesturing at the gathered mages, preparing for the fight. And no one would look at him.

He stared at the smooth, stone floor and idly passed his staff back and forth between his hands. Someone in armor stomped towards him, but he didn’t look up until a pair of silverite boots entered his field of vision. Anders looked up, willfully not flinching at the flaming sword, and met Carver Hawke’s cold blue gaze. It had been almost three years since he’d seen Garrett’s brother, not since the funeral. Without Leandra to bring her sons together, they’d spiraled away from each other. No interest in maintaining a relationship when there was no one left who'd care.

“It could have been me,” Carver said without preamble. “I could have been in there when it blew. Did that even occur to you? Or would that have been a _bonus_?”

Anders looked away, his gaze flickering past Carver’s shoulder to Garrett. “No, it couldn’t have,” he said quietly.

“What?”

He looked back at Carver. “When was the last time you were stationed in the Chantry?”

Carver scoffed. “I… It was…” The sneer faded as he thought.

“It’s been over a month,” Anders supplied. “I had a few contacts in the Gallows. One of them fixed the duty roster.”

The younger Hawke gaped at him. Behind Carver, Garrett glanced over and did a double take. He quickly excused himself from the conversation with Orsino and hurried over. “You made sure I wouldn’t be in there?” Carver asked, stunned.

Anders shrugged. “It was selfish,” he said.

Carver’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to speak. “I _knew_ the people you killed,” he choked out. “They had brothers and sisters and families too! Why did they deserve to die?”

“I told you. It was selfish.” Anders glanced at Garrett, who stood just behind his brother, stone-faced and silent. “I couldn’t let myself be responsible for killing what was left of Garrett’s family.”

“So it’s about him,” Carver snarled.

“What isn’t?” Garrett asked, trying for sarcastic and failing. “Carver--”

“ _Don’t_.” He stepped aside, moving out from between the two of them, and shook his head. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or reasons or preaching. He’s a blighted murderer.”

Garrett just stared at his brother. “So am I,” he replied. “Spotters saw the Templars on their way in. You should get ready.”

Carver shook his head and stormed off. Garrett watched him go, then shook his head, eyes closed for a moment. Anders swallowed hard. “I never dreamed that you’d want me to stay,” he said quietly. “I should have trusted you.”

Garrett grimaced at that. He looked old, far older than his thirty-odd years. “Yes, you should have,” he said. “And once this is over, we’re going to have a very, very long discussion about… about a lot of things.”

Anders nodded. “There will be nowhere safe in Kirkwall for me, not after this. I’ll have to run. And I… if you’d come with me… I-I’d rather be on the run with you, than safe with anyone else.” Garrett just stared at him. Anders swallowed hard and pressed on. “I…I’ll understand, if you don’t want to… if you don’t…”

Garrett let out a harsh, wet laugh, dangerously close to a sob, and grabbed Anders by back of the neck, pulling him in and resting their foreheads together. “You are so damn determined to be a martyr, aren’t you,” he snapped. “Anders, I love you. I want to fight by your side. And you don’t get to leave me, you understand?”

He brought one shaking hand up to wrap around Garrett's wrist. “Garrett...”

“If you're on the run, then so am I,” Garrett said. “We'll be fugitives together.”

And with that, he felt the last shreds of fear, of doubt, of belief that no one could love him that much, crumble away. Everything he'd done, everything he was, and Garrett still loved him. “Garrett, I--”

“They're coming!” one of the mages shouted, verging on panic.

Garrett looked away and drew in a deep breath, steeling himself. “You don't get to leave me,” he repeated. “Okay?”

Anders nodded. Garrett searched his face, almost as if memorizing it, then stepped away and readied his staff. Anders took a deep breath and followed him, as always.


	20. Chapter 20

Anders couldn't sleep.

Garrett had finally drifted off, arms and legs wrapped around him, his head on Anders's shoulder. He didn't seem to mind the gentle sway of the ship as they sailed away from Kirkwall. No set destination yet; they were all so focused on escaping that they hadn't thought of where to run to.

An oddly familiar feeling, after all these years.

He stared at the ceiling and listened to Garrett breathe. They'd talked, once they'd gotten to the ship, once Kirkwall had disappeared from view and Garrett had come in from the deck. They'd talked, and shouted, and wept, and ultimately ended up here, tangled together in the dark.

Anders still couldn't quite wrap his head around it all. The Kirkwall Chantry destroyed, Meredith and Orsino and Elthina dead, Sebastian vowing revenge, Aveline staying behind to repair the city. And Garrett still loved him. Everything that had happened, everything Anders had done, and Garrett still loved him.

He hadn't expected that.

It wasn't ever going to be easy. They wouldn't have the chance to settle down and grow old together... but they  _would_ be together, whatever happened. It was more than Anders had dared hope for. 

He wondered what Justice would think of it. The spirit had been suspicious of Garrett for so long... Anders wondered if it was his influence that kept him from telling Garrett about the plan. Hard to tell, really. They'd bled into each other, changed each other. It was pointless, really, to try to blame Justice for any of it. Justice was gone. There was just Anders, a man irrevocably changed, but the spirit, the person that Justice had been... he didn't exist anymore. 

“I hope it was worth it,” Anders murmured. Justice was part of him, but that didn't stop him from missing his friend. He'd just have to make the spirit's sacrifice mean something. Keep fighting for the cause Justice had believed in so strongly, even before Anders had.

Garrett mumbled something in his sleep and shifted position. Anders nuzzled at Garrett's hair and sighed. He'd have to make all their sacrifices mean something. He brushed a kiss to Garrett's forehead, then closed his eyes. Their room was quiet, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Anders felt something close to peace.


End file.
